


Careful you

by sahina



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, Holding Hands, M/M, takes place during the time in the safe house! it's very soft and very self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:00:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23065873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahina/pseuds/sahina
Summary: “So you've thought about holding my hand before?” it comes out more wistful than teasing, but Jon starts sputtering all the same.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 15
Kudos: 177





	Careful you

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from the song careful you by tv on the radio!! it's a very good song and someone said it suited jm and now i can't stop listening to it. this is just a drabble i wrote at one am before passing out the second my head hit the pillow but i hope it still makes sense haha

“Your hands are dry.” he states it, but the way he quirks his eyebrows makes Martin think he's asking, so he clutches the hand in his and tells him.

“I’ve always had dry hands and washing them all the time makes the skin dry out even more,” he tries to shrug, but lying down with a body next to his makes the movement feel too abrupt, so he shakes his head lightly instead. Then, quieter, “It's a long time ago now, I know, but thinking about  _ her  _ worms burrowing into my skin- it, uh, helps to wash them a lot. It's reassuring to check, just in case.” Jon hums, and Martin feels him flex his fingers a little. He knows he's thinking about his own scars, standing out starkly against his dark skin. Pushing away his own guilt for not being there for him, he squeezes his hand slightly, not hard enough to jostle his aching joints but enough for him to feel it. Jon squeezes back a moment later, holding his hand tighter a little longer than Martin had before it goes slack again. 

“... I understand,” Jon says. Martin believes him. “I didn't mean it in a bad way though, I was just, er, surprised. In my mind, your hands were really soft, like your jumpers- but I like this too. It feels more… More human, somehow.” he finishes lamely. Martin can tell he's a little embarrassed from the way his jaw tenses, but he doesn't take it back. They've been working on communicating for the last week and a half since their escape to Scotland. It's been good for them both, he thinks, to attempt being as unfiltered as possible with each other- something neither has been able to be for a long time.

The words catch up with him and make his cheeks flush. “So you've thought about holding my hand before?” it comes out more wistful than teasing, but Jon starts sputtering all the same. It makes him laugh, a warm sound coming from his chest. Like the love that fills it is leaking out from his mouth, the poet in him supplies. He swats at the poet for now, but notes the phrase anyway. Maybe he'll get around to write a little later. Right now he is too content to get out of bed. “It's alright, really…” then he adds shyly as he strokes his thumb over scarred knuckles. “I've spent a lot of time thinking about your hands too. I always thought they'd be rougher to the touch. Warmer, maybe. They resemble my dad's hands, the way I remember them, like a worker. Someone who uses their hands a lot. I can tell you play guitar, for example, because your fingertips are hardened. Mostly though, your hands are soft, and very cold!.” he let out another laugh, exhaling through his nose. He finds that he does a lot of that these days. Part of him thinks he has never laughed openly this much, ever. “I like that though, like you said, it's very human. Your scars too.” bringing their entwined fingers up to his face, he presses a kiss to the back of Jon’s hand, feather light on burned skin. It has healed completely by now and is no longer sensitive, but it feels right to be gentle as he does it.

The look Jon gives him is tender, full of love and wonder. Martin almost has to avert his eyes. It's like staring into the sun, bright and bliding, and not for the first time does he think he's not worthy of the warmth; it takes his breath away, staring into dark brown eyes that hold so much knowledge, Martin thinks he could spend forever looking into them.

Jon’s other hand, having previously been pinned between them as they lay facing each other, rises to rest on Martin’s cheek. It's freezing, like his hands always are, but Martin welcomes it. Maybe it will be enough to calm the fire burning hot beneath his skin, he muses, but it doesn't. Instead it warms and he thinks that's alright too. There is something about being there with Jon, on the other end of the island, in a dusty cottage with curtains that let in too much sunlight in the morning that makes them wake earlier than they need to, that makes him think that maybe this is where he was always meant to be. It's certainly where he hopes to remain, come what may.

He is reminded of the poetry he used to write, words of longing flowing out of him like spilled ink on yellowed paper (he thinks that's what it must have looked like, writing in his messy handwriting, words small and close together, feverishly scrawled in moments of fickle inspiration from whatever frame of the day he'd kept in memory. Of Jon smiling, back when he had just taken the position as head archivist and smiling was a rarity; of brushing fingers as he hands Jon a steaming cup of tea; of watching from afar how the man he loves drifts further and further away from him as he drowns. Martin remembers using that particular imagery: that of drowning and swimming and sinking and floating. He wonders if it has anything to do with his fear of open water, or if it's just simply something he's picked up on and made his own after the countless collections of poetry he's read) and momentarily he feels ashamed over the way he'd painted the picture of Jon, far away and unreachable when he's right there. A few inches from his face, smiling and soft.

He takes the opportunity and closes the distance between them and his lips, he thinks, are as wonderful as he always imagined.


End file.
